


Eigengrau

by NorahPineffrin



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Romance, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Bond Shenanigans, Force Visions, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Jedi Code (Star Wars), Minor Original Character(s), Star Wars: The Old Republic - Shadow of Revan, Work In Progress, Yavin 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2020-03-05 19:53:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18835627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorahPineffrin/pseuds/NorahPineffrin
Summary: The temporary Republic/Empire alliance on Yavin 4 has brought Darth Marr and Satele Shan closer than they ever expected.  After an encounter at a ... uniquely cursed Sith temple, the two leaders wrestle with the difficulty of navigating their emotions and guarding their secrets, all while trying to hold together the fragile coalition on which trillions of lives depend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Unmasked](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4647450) by [ACelestialDream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACelestialDream/pseuds/ACelestialDream). 



> This plot follows on from its inspiration story, "Unmasked". You don't -have- to have read that story to enjoy this one, but you should, because it's delightful.
> 
> Don't worry, this gets sexier later.

Marr was restless.

It wasn't enough.  It wasn't enough that he had spent a bewitched night in the … intimate company of the most notorious Jedi alive.  Wasn't enough that they had come to their tense entente the morning after.  Six days on and he still couldn't get the ordeal in Lord Gravinia's temple out of his head.  He had put himself through endless martial drills, pored intently over the longest and driest reports, stared impatiently through the holographic scenarios his underlings were always shoving in front of him.  In the face of this distraction, maintaining his customary façade of impassivity was becoming slightly ... troublesome.  

Satele Shan, lifting him from peril, healing him.  _Touching_ him.  Seeing him, in maskless, naked weakness, and responding only with a mercy that stung like venom.  And then their having been drawn into a … prurient trap by a long-dead Lord not fit to carry his cloak.  It was humiliating; the fresh memory still made him want to crush a droid with his mind and hurl it off a precipice.  He had done that once already, this week, and was irritated with himself.  _Wasteful.  Less wasteful than a sentient.  But wasteful._ Privately he had always held deep pride at being less susceptible than most Sith to losing control of his anger. 

Damn her!  It was already an open secret (at least among people who mattered) that _she_ wasn't perfectly celibate.  She would face demotion and social censure, at worst.  If _his_ face were known, there would be … irreparable consequences.  His blindness without the cumbersome mask was only the most immediate danger.  Shan might well reason that a personal scandal would be worth the benefit to her Republic when he was deposed, disgraced, and dead.  Would she keep the secret even after this alliance inevitably dissolved?  When she had lowered her mind's defenses to assent to their pact of secrecy, he had sensed no duplicity in her… but that was six days ago, and minds and motives had their tendency to shift.  Even those of Jedi.  Perhaps especially those. 

Satele Shan, tasting of rivers, quivering under his tongue with unrestrained pleasure.  He could barely believe he had not hallucinated it all. 

Had that cursed Gravinia wormed into his head?  He sensed nothing of the wily spirit's presence.  Nothing strong of anyone's, in fact: the small temple he had chosen as his temporary quarters was as silent in the Force as the jungle stone, empty of ancient energies, having been cleansed or never used.  Marr preferred this: the background interference of Yavin's volatile Force presences was thus kept to a minimum, and his sensing was clearer.  So why did these treacherous stirrings continue?  The salacious Sith spirits had gotten their offering.  He had _felt_ them recede back into quiescence.  Here in his refuge, of all places, his mind should be his own to command, attuned nowhere else.  It made very little sense. 

Another unbidden thought: Satele Shan bent before him, bound in lightning, opening to his passion.  With the image a spike of reflexive lust warmed him and made his armor feel suddenly confining.  His imagination was pulled away with the current and he began to visualize other things he might do with her.  The sounds she might make…

No.  This would not do.   

Marr reminded himself sternly of her misdeeds in the Great War and after.  How many Sith had she maimed and killed?  How many of their best?  Malgus after Alderaan had been a different man, half-mad and fatally hubristic.  They'd lost planets because of her: Satele Shan and her arrogant humility.  His face burned behind his newly replaced mask; the old wounds ached.  He should not be desiring this woman, this _enemy_ , on the basis of a flimsy alliance and a night of improbable, incomparable sex.  Really he should not be _desiring_ in this way at all.  He had finished himself with his hands more than once this week, cursing his lack of restraint; he had thought himself far past these atavistic longings.  How was it that he was _still_ plagued by memory: the scent of her, the simple warmth of her skin, the way it had moved against his own…

Satele Shan, bright as a blue-giant star, wet and incandescent around him as his consciousness was obliterated and magnified by the Force.

That was what Marr couldn't tear himself from, in the end: the ascending transcendence soon after they joined that had sent him hurtling past stars, across voids and filaments, back to the atmosphere of Yavin 4, at one with the earth and air, attuned to the presence of everything that lived there and everything that had.  Like dark poison spreading in water he had perceived Vitiate's astral existence amid the petrified soul-wreckage of a thousand Sith sorcerers -- and it had perceived him in turn, in the manner of a bestial hive-mind taking slow and deadly notice of an intruder.  He had raced away from the roiling horror to see Revan turn to stare at him, speaking inaudibly and with urgency to someone else.  With only a turn of his head he had seen Yavin as a Massassi, a ghost, a broad fern leaf, a storm, a patrol surrounded in the forest.  His self had constantly fragmented and reformed and at length he had seen through the eyes of Revan himself, envisioning plots behind plots, mind always fleeing a _falseness_ deep within him…

A battle between strange ships.  A planet of nothing but ash.  The overpowering scent of ozone.

The perspectives had dissolved into each other like dreams as Marr rode atop waves of urgent pleasure, cosmic and invincible, feeling Shan as a binary presence pulsing against him and then as a being coterminous with himself.  When the visions vanished with his release they had done so with the triumphant final flourish of dancers, a blur of changes he could barely understand.  He remembered holding her body to his, both of them spent and sweating, as immediate reality rushed back in… and for the briefest instant he had forgotten who either of them was.

He had emerged from that temple with a thousand fears and questions, and with an uncannily certain sense of the danger that faced their mission.  In the days since, things had… fallen together, in his mind.  They did not bode well.

If the alliance failed here, an unmasking would be the very least of his worries.  Marr was a fearsome warrior and a superlative commander, but there were powers in the galaxy that put his own to shame, and the spirits they sought to defeat here on the jungle moon were among them.  A deep and familiar dread crept over him, the sense of being pulled into endless oblivion by void-black hands.  Death was patiently waiting.  Perhaps even the power of the united fleets would not save them from it here.  Still they had to try.

Playing close to the vest, as always, he hadn't told Shan about the visions.  That would need to be rectified.  She wielded tremendous power, loath though he usually was to admit it, and it would be essential to their efforts.

There, then: a solid, unimpeachable reason to summon her to a private conference.  Whatever might happen between them, past or future, there had to be a way to forge a strategy the wrathful spirits' culminating plots would not break.  He would find his victory.  He always did. 

If it aligned with his own pernicious curiosity … so much the better.

Marr's hands flew over his datapad, resolute with purpose.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Satele goes for a stroll.

The ruin that served as Marr's field quarters was at a considerable remove from the base of his forces.  A ziggurat of stained stone like nearly all the others, it loomed over the trees in silent threat.  _Rather like the man himself_.  Satele had told her closest aides of the plan: Force research.  Strategizing.  Intelligence gathering.  Maybe sparring.  For all she knew, that was all that _would_ happen.  Guiltily a part of her hoped their meeting might go otherwise.

With quiet, measured strides she made her way down the narrow footpath hacked through the jungle.  Already the plants of Yavin were reclaiming the trail, despite the heaps of recent cuttings she noticed.  Some of the smaller tree trunks bore what she was sure were saber marks.  Had he done this himself?  It wouldn't surprise her. 

A small squadron of parasitic gnats droned around her, looking for a bite.  Padawans early in their lessons learned a tutaminis cantrip to keep pests at bay, but Satele acknowledged and then merely ignored the creatures.  _Better they torment something that can take it._  

The tropical humidity was making her perspire.  She took little notice of it; her body and mind had long been trained to endure any environment a human could possibly survive in (and some they couldn't).  Still, the vaporous air lay thick on the darkening jungle, and as Satele progressed she couldn't help but remember Gravinia's temple, the mists and taunting ghosts and paths that led nowhere.  And… other things.  She hoped the Sith Lord might discuss that temple with her, might negotiate some sort of stabilizing closure to the jarring events of the week before.  She couldn't help feeling disquiet, a fundamental imbalance, whenever she thought of the matter.  Perhaps he had felt likewise.  Perhaps that was why the message yesterday.

 

**=====HIGHEST SECRECY=====**

TO: GRAND MASTER SATELE SHAN

FROM: DARTH MARR

We must confer.  The threats that face us will require our coordination, in the Force as well as militarily.  I have had visions of this conflict, visions from which we must draw meaning and purpose.  As our cause is, at present, the same, I shall appreciate your professional assistance in this matter.

Come to my quarters at 18:00 tomorrow.  Ready your mind — the ordeal we face is formidable.

======================

 

That had sounded exactly like the usual Marr, except for the fact that the request had been made at all.

Even as her feet propelled her forward she questioned her judgment in coming here.  She knew most of her motivation was selfish, even if she left out the matter of — no, she wouldn't dignify those immoderate urges with the word "attraction".  Curiosity was foremost — after the temple incident, she remembered Marr's stern and decisive request (more like a decree) to speak no more of it.  Yet now this reversal, only a week later.  It was out of the ordinary.  Had the Sith really experienced prophetic visions?  She _did_ want to know, and it _did_ have bearing on this miserable business with Revan and Vitiate. 

Did he mean to capture or kill her?  This was a fine time to be wondering about that again, she thought.  Well, she had her Force senses and her intuition, and none of them told her this was a trap… as dubious as it seemed.  There was also the "comforting" fact that Marr being implicated in her demise would screw the alliance and the mission and, fate forbid, the galaxy beyond.  He would have to be suicidally stupid for that level of sabotage.  She knew he wasn't.  ( _It would be easier, perhaps, if he were_ …)

She shivered despite the heat, remembering the hypnotizing bliss of his mouth between her legs, the delirious joy of yielding to him and to the deepest parts of herself, one with her senses —

Satele paused on the path and closed her eyes.  The peace she had made in the temple with her memories of Jace — that remained, that was good.  The desires she had uncovered beyond that, on the other hand… yes, those were a problem.  Calmly she told herself that time and discipline would resolve the issue, as they had for more than thirty years.  The longing for a partner would dissipate harmlessly after a time, like petals at the end of the season, and dissolve away into the wide quiet sea below her Jedi serenity.  _Trust in yourself and in the Force._   She breathed evenly, listening to the jungle.  She had a certain respect for Marr.  That, she could admit.  That was healthy.  That could stay.

Not the feel of his broad, methodical hands exploring her body, his low sibilant voice by her ear, his cock slipping inside her, and then out, and then in again —

She repeated the entire Code to herself, twice, a little fast, and remembered something Kao Cen Darach had told her a very long time ago.  _You master your affinity with the Force not simply because you are powerful, but because you have a calling.  We put aside the fleeting attachments of life so that others might appreciate them in peace.  Do you see?  Meditate with me, Satele.  Observe your desires.  Face them.  Let them pass.  There is fulfillment, too, in our way.  I know you will find it._

That was after he had caught her in the third-level supply room with another Padawan, both of them teenagers clumsy with hormones and eager to experiment…

Not for the first time, or the five-hundredth, Satele pondered whether she was quite suited for some of the Jedi strictures.  An appetite for passion certainly ran in the family — was, of course, the reason there _was_ a family to run in.  Such as it was.

_We all have our weak spots, our challenges.  Accepting that we have weaknesses, and knowing the ones we do: this is what can give us the strength to stand firm in our principles._ That was what she told her own students when they, in turn, struggled with temptations.  Wise words.  Weren't they?

She took a few more silent breaths and then kept walking.

The Imp forces hadn't yet acceded to the request for mutual base access; Satele had had to employ a few tricks to circumvent their nervous patrollers on her way to this lonely path.  They would all know who she was, and most would probably stay their weapons against her — for now — but she reasoned it was far more likely that Marr had set her this evasion as some small test, a confirmation of ability.  _How very Sith of him_.

Dusk was deepening as she arrived at the temple's floodlit entrance.  A blast door, tightly sealed, had been expertly fitted to the trapezoidal entryway; two formidable, platform-like attack droids stood sentry on either side of it, blistering with weapons.  The moment she entered their perimeter both of them swiveled their multiple gun barrels to train on her.  Reflex tempted her to draw her saber, but discipline kept it at her belt.  She looked up at the droids, one and then the other, for some further sign of acknowledgment.  There was none.  In the Force she felt no sentient presences nearby except him.   _I hope he doesn't expect me to start a fight._

"I'm here at the request of Darth Marr," she announced loudly.

The droids remained still, though Satele noticed some of their chassis lights activating in a new pattern.  After a moment a narrow scanning beam swept over her from a cunningly concealed unit above the blast door, limning her figure in glowing green light.  As the guard droids relaxed their weapons she heard a distant mechanical chime, then a closer one, and then a hissing rumble of stone and metal as the entrance opened to admit her.  Beyond in the darkness was … well, she would see, wouldn't she.

Satele centered her mind, set her will, breathed deeply, and stepped over the threshold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Removed some tags until the respective characters actually show up in the story.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Satele and Marr play mind games in the fortress of solitude.

Satele's eyes adjusted to a large, almost cluttered anteroom that looked like a dormant hub of action. Serving droids, slumped and inactive. A rudimentary comms setup, an empty reception desk.  Holding cells for sentients and beasts, scrubbed and empty.  A medical corner with cabinets of therapeutics, a kolto tank empty of liquid… and a surgical table.  She didn't want to think of what _that_ was for.  Emergency medicine? _Stars, I hope so._   Corridors branched off to the sides, but she ignored them in favor of the door facing her on the inner wall, another blast-sealed entryway, slightly smaller.  She stepped carefully past the many furnishings to the far side of the room.  Another green scanner examined her and the blast door split into two diagonal halves to let her pass. Marr's presence was very clear, unmoving; it tugged at the edges of her sensing.  She headed in its direction, taking her time.  There was little hurry.  For the moment, anyway.

The next chamber was a sort of armory/gymnasium, its empty center spacious, with a layer of springy, absorbent flooring material over the native stone.  The periphery boasted a rack of well-used practice weapons, a gun locker, target dummies, and neat arrangements of weights and remotes.  As with the previous area, a thick durasteel blast door barred her passage at the far side.  This was rather impressive (and excessive) for one person's temporary field lodgings; Satele, for her part, counted herself lucky to have a private tent not even a quarter the size of this single room.

Then again, she recalled, Sith Lords of Marr's stature had the wealth, the power, and usually the vanity for an outlay like this temple. _An illustrious master of the Empire deserves every comfort of home,_ she thought sardonically, recognizing at the same time that she was just a shade envious.  _But I know my path and I welcome walking it._  

… _Even into a Darth's sanctum, in alliance or… more?_

Yes.  _Most of the time._   She smiled ruefully to herself.  There was more peace to be found in acknowledging weakness than in denying it, after all.

As she waited for the training room's door-scanner to analyze her and grant her entrance, she realized with surprise that the ceiling was artificial, a metal walling-off of one of the skylit chambers so favored by Massassi builders.  Marr was as exacting about his security as with everything else.  Of course.  That would also explain why the air was so stale and dry despite the filter vents she saw.  She wondered if his stronghold on Dromund Kaas was anything like this place.

Next was a — lounge?  No, _lobby_ was really a more appropriate descriptor.  Although clean and functional, there was a hotel-like anonymity to the narrow, austere sitting-room she found here.  Aside from a single powered-down servitor droid and a quartet of angular, unupholstered couches, the only real decorations were a potted native cycad by the entrance and a wall display of a quadrupedal skeleton Satele didn't recognize.  On the left wall this time, rather than the far one, was fitted a narrow door of gleaming metal shrouded in the vibrating glow of a forcefield.  Installed subtly but not invisibly along the ceiling were what Satele recognized as apertures for retractable defense turrets.

 _More security._  

Marr was very close, she knew.  There was no scanning beam to verify her here, but before she had the time to search elsewhere for sensor gadgetry she heard the whir of a complex mechanism and the silvered door hissed open, its forcefield blinking off with a soft _whummm_.  There was no other fanfare, no greeting of any kind at all; she scanned the dim beyond with Force-augmented eyes and entered, warily, her hand at her belt-sheath and her thumb on the dualsaber's ignition switch.

This was her destination, the last room, Marr's inner chamber.  It was low-lit, windowless and rectangular.  To Satele's left were a desk, a holocom, several blank monitors, a modest bed, a rack upon which rested most of Marr's armor, and a tiered shelf of meticulously arranged holocrons in their prismatic shapes and colors.  At the opposite end were a kitchenette, a medical cabinet, the presumable entrance to a washroom, and what looked like some sort of sophisticated military safe, a black metal shell covered with officious warnings in severe aurebesh type.  She was taking a thorough measure of things before confronting the man whose presence rang so loudly to her Force perception.

"The weapon is not necessary."

Marr had been meditating on a mat in the near corner, by the desk.  She finally turned to face him, letting her draw hand relax while remaining alert.  They'd met a few times since the Gravinia incident, at conference-table briefings or in passing, but Satele had to admit that it still made her slightly anxious to look at him.  Particularly now, without the fortifying buffer of a crowd around them.  Nonetheless she met his masked gaze with defiant confidence.  Of his emotion she noticed little; as at other times, their powers made them largely closed to each other's sensing.

"As if you wouldn't have brought one."

"I suppose that is fair."  Marr was still, observing her.  He was hooded and masked, though otherwise lightly attired, in the thin cloth under-armor she remembered all too well.  It was an odd contrast.  Satele wished she could see his face.  "So.  You have come."

"Yes, I have," she said, furrowing her brow.  "What is the meaning of this?"

"You received the message."

Satele nodded slowly.

"Then meditate with me."  He gestured to the space across from him on the mat.

She crossed her arms.  "I _know_ you didn't invite me here just to meditate."

"Suit yourself."  He projected a blank calm, and Satele imagined his eyes closing behind the mask.

_Fine, then.  If he's going to play coy…_

She pulled off her high boots with the alacrity of habit and sat cross-legged opposite the Sith, a good meter of space between them.  Studying the etched metal ovoid of his mask, she touched him lightly with the Force, half from instinct and half from curiosity. 

"I feel that.  You are not meditating."

"And neither are you, if you're speaking up to tell me that."

Marr sounded decidedly… testy _._ "The best way to begin this, for all further purposes, is meditation.  We will discuss thereafter.  Clear your mind and join me."

Satele misliked this vague beginning, but she acquiesced, straightening her back and adopting her customary position, retreating from and into her mind to become a vessel of the Force.  Before she started she wondered, briefly and idly, how Marr and his fellow Sith accomplished this.  As she entered trance she felt him nearby as a star perceives its neighbor: flowing gravity, pulls and repulsions, an anonymous awareness governed only by laws of motion.  The Force in this state could not be analyzed, only experienced; every time Satele emerged from deep meditation she felt fuller of wonder and emptier of knowledge.  A healthy state for a Jedi, as Master Zho would doubtless have said.

Within the Force, out of time, Satele saw the passing evening from far away when she saw it at all, one aspect of the infinite many.  There were refuge and enlightenment both in this stillness empty of thought, and novice Force-users had a tendency to get stuck in trance well past their intentions.  She had long since learned greater discipline, the art of perceiving unconsciously, and was content to remain in the universe until the threads anchoring her to reality felt Marr withdraw back to his immediate surroundings. 

He raised his head and seemed to be looking at her.  "There.  A clearer mind, for us both.  It is wise to attune oneself to the source of one's power, especially when one plans on using it."

She cocked her head at him.  "Using it?  How?"  She continued before he could answer: "And, if I may ask, how is it that _you_ meditate?Concentrate on whatever you hate and fear?"

"That is the way of it, for many Sith," he responded cagily.  "The technique I practice is a honing of rightful anger, immolating the self in the purity of the emotion."  He gesticulated.  "…Perhaps this is vague."

"No," she said, although she did have a great many more questions.  _They can wait, for now._

Marr shifted position, relaxing his stance slightly.  As he moved Satele was reminded anew of how form-fitting his under-suit was.  Although he was Sith and his aging flesh bore the visible depredations of his power, veined and inflamed and grey-pale, his body was defined and dense with muscle and he did cut an impressive figure.  Before the temple incident she would have found all this trivial to ignore. 

He cleared his throat.  "The visions… much of what I saw was impossible to interpret.  But there was meaning enough to sense the treachery and malice Revan and my erstwhile Emperor bear us.  Not simply _us_ on this distant moon, but the multitudes beyond.  They would see planets in cinders, regardless of allegiance.  Moreover they would see _life_ consigned to annihilation."

"I don't see why someone like you wouldn't welcome that."

"I should like to know that my Empire endures beyond my mortal self," he said stonily.  "The void claims us all, in the end — in its _time_.  Vitiate's goals are a perversion of death, of Sith power, and most damningly of the Empire itself.  His plans must be thwarted.  The line of history shall persist."

"Thank you for your answer, Marr, but with due respect, I believe I already understand the gravity of our situation."  She sensed a momentary wrath from him, like a corona of heat.  It withdrew swiftly.

"That is not all of it.  There is something… _wrong_ , with Revan.  I have felt it.  It may be a weakness we can exploit.  _If_ it can be identified."

Satele kept her expression even and open, her emotions flat as a temple pool.  "That is useful information.  But is there a reason it couldn't have been shared at conference or through secure comms?"

She knew how much Marr liked to wield his pointed silences, and waited patiently until at last he spoke, rising to his feet.  She did likewise, taking a step back toward the door and searching in the Force for threats.  Nothing signaled danger, but she didn't completely know what he was capable of.  _At least that's probably mutual._

"Hold," he said, raising an arm.  "I summoned you here to study these visions and would be most displeased were you to dismiss them without complete information."

"Complete information?"

"Permit me to show you.  You may share what I have seen.  Perhaps then you will understand."  He turned his broad palms up in a gesture of conciliation.  "After you may decide as you will."

Satele knew what he meant by that: a targeted transfer of memories, a temporary melding of minds.  It was about as intimate as visiting the rooms of each other's dwellings, in this case; there was little of great secrecy revealed, but a perceptive visitor or a careless host could present unforeseen problems.

"You want me to open my mind?"  She remained incredulous.  "To you."

"As I shall in turn.  In opposition we balance one another.  You will not come to harm."

"I've heard _that_ before."

"And was it wrong?"

She scoffed — _Maybe not that_ one _time —_ but let his comment lie, taking a step forward.  "Let's get this over with."

Marr motioned toward the mat.  "Sit." 

She sat facing him again, wary and watchful.

"Take your mask off," she said abruptly.  Marr exuded sharp and immediate irritation.  He stilled but did not otherwise respond, and Satele's forehead crinkled at his obstinacy even as her voice remained firm and calm.  _Sith and their hair triggers.  I wonder how hard it is to hold in the fury, for someone who draws strength from doing the opposite._  "You have more power here than anywhere outside Dromund Kaas or the bridge of your warship.  So concede me this request.  I know you hate it but I didn't exactly enjoy skulking through your guard patrols to meet you in a place where I'm at a serious disadvantage, either.  And I'm not about to touch minds with someone whose face I can't see.  Especially not when —" _Oh stars I shouldn't be thinking of —_  "…not when I've seen it before."

Again he waited long enough that the silence grew heavy and strange.  Satele weathered it patiently, her outward self betraying nothing but tranquility.  After a charged, extended quiet Marr at last raised his hands to his face, fingers manipulating something at his temples.  With a _click_ the mask came free.  He left the hood on, which looked more than a little incongruous with the rest of his brief attire, but Satele knew better than to push the issue.

Though she remembered — _all too well_ — what she'd seen of him in the temple a week ago, the sight of Marr's bare face still unnerved and surprised her.  A wide, uneven band of scar tissue, studded with the interface jacks for his mask, cut across his seared forehead and the rheumy, unfocused remains of his eyes; his aquiline nose, though mostly spared by the blinding wound, had obviously been broken countless times before.  Lesser scars and the furrows of age trailed from his broad, uneven mouth and the purplish discoloration common to powerful Sith had begun to set in.  It was a wrecked and unlovely countenance, if not quite the kind to drive a man to suicide.

 _About that._   "Marr," she said with gentle humor, "for the record, your face is nowhere near disturbing enough to make someone else want to die."

He bristled.  "Are you quite serious?  That is a rumor.  A partial truth at best.  And hardly relevant at present."  Perhaps she shouldn't have said that.  But she did take a guilty enjoyment in the hasty, haughty way he pronounced things when he was aggravated.  _Maybe a little pique will even help his meditation._   "If you intend to trick me into thinking about classified information, you will _not_ find success."  He glowered, as much as his face allowed.  "Let us begin."

Straightening himself into a meditation posture, Marr extended a hand, his palm facing her and his opposite hand bent into some Sith mudra.  She pressed her opposite palm against his and stared at his maskless face as they lowered their minds' guard, haltingly and with suspicion.  Satele imagined a pair of warring cities winching open their gates in reluctant fulfillment of a treaty.  Now they were vulnerable to one another, sharing the surfaces of their thoughts; she imagined a foyer in her mind, clean and spartan, to which she was welcoming her counterpart _._ There was a weird heat from Marr as he sank into trance, an agitation that she realized must be his contemplative anger.  Though her face went red with the shared emotion she let it pass over her as she had the warmth of the jungle, and her own mind followed its own familiar paths to higher consciousness, weaving chaos into harmony.

From the perfect emptiness of the trance she felt Marr's mind locked in orbit with her own, his thoughts reaching into memory as he worked to impart to her the visions he had seen.  Satele's perception smoothed and flattened, reflecting, and her consciousness flowed like liquid over the shapes Marr had placed for it.

She rushed up from the propagating cells of an ancient plant to soar above the jungle moon, rising further yet, passing through the burning-sunset storms of Yavin itself until the stars reappeared before her in the endless black.  She was Revan — or was it Vitiate? — and he was watching, watching this, watching everything.  He was pondering something in depth, in abyssal depth, but his own mind was opaque.  At irregular intervals he convulsed, laughing with diabolical vigor.  Was it real?  Was Revan a threat to the plans that were converging even now, the reforging of his spirit into the undying being who deserved the galaxy's subjugation?  Why was the forest burning as her vision shook and whose warships were those flying through her?  A shock of primal pleasure coursed through all of it and as she stared with growing unease at the writhing fragments of Vitiate inching toward each other, she felt an entirely different sense of urgency filling her in opposition, one that pulsed with a familiar, forbidden rhythm, one that she _wanted_ to see to its end…

Revan looked at them again and she sensed his powerful wrath, the centuries spent coveting freedom and revenge.  Joining with his mind she looked forward to the day of his final victory, knew of his certain triumph, and then… faltered, searching for a foreign feeling, unable to complete his thoughts, spiraling into entropy like an incomplete machine.  As Satele's own mind tried to measure the meaning and magnitude of what it saw, as the driving tension expanded to a loudening drumbeat of physical need, her ancestor realized the intrusion and cast her out into stones that floated in a waterfall of nebula-gas before hurtling past the twilight atmosphere of the Yavin moon and through the masonry of a silent temple guarded by droids —

The visions faded and their physical senses resumed primacy.  Even after over a half-century of training Satele still found such transitions jarring.  She realized that she was half out of breath and leaned, for just an instant, against Marr's upraised hand before pulling hers away.  The effects of exertion faded quickly, but that… other feeling remained, the ungratified yearning for ecstasy.  Part of her wanted to reach for Marr, to press her body to his —

She felt her face reddening and hoped, with the furtive little staccato thoughts prudent for an open-but-secretive mind, that he hadn't sensed all of that.  Wary, she raised her defenses again; there was no point in sustaining this dangerous weak point now that its purpose was done.

She was aware of Marr's own disorientation after the sharing, his deep dread of the visions and, yes, a thin but blazing streak of something more carnal.  As usual his outward manner revealed nothing, although she noticed uncomfortably that he was partway erect beneath his leggings.  Their minds both landed on that thought and then bounced instantly away as if scalded. 

Brusquely and slowly he spoke.  "So.  You have seen."

"I see more of what you meant, about Revan.  Something off.  It was almost obvious, it felt like, and then gone."  Satele was careful in her speech, loath to reveal anything further to him of the current running high and fast under her thoughts.

Perhaps Marr sensed it anyway, or had earlier.  "You are troubled.  The… physical effects are to be expected.  I feel them also.  Doubtless you have resisted such trifling passions many a time.  As have I."  He was clipping his _r_ 's very pointedly, as if he were orating.

 _Have you?_   "'To be expected'?"

He glanced off to the side, the hood obscuring most of his face as he did so.  "This vision's occurrence was — unusual —"  From his mind she felt a rush of arousal that was swiftly cut off, though not before suggesting quite strongly to her who the catalyst for it was.  She wondered, her face warming, why his thoughts were still open.  Marr cleared his throat, regaining his composure as if he had never faltered: "It appeared to me in Gravinia's temple."

She recognized that name.  "A _lot_ of things appeared in that temple," she said tartly.

"It appeared," he repeated, "while we were… joined."

Little moments of hidden desire like candies snatched from the jar were one thing, but hearing the matter spoken of directly, catching glimpses of Marr's own past and present temptations, made her feel only shame.  _Breathe.  There is no passion._  

 _Oh Satele, you_ know _there is._

_There is peace._

_Breathe._

Marr went on: "Hence the … extraneous sensations."

There was an awkward pause.

"If this vision is so important and you had it seven days ago, why the wait?" she ventured.  Interviewing a subject, debriefing a soldier: she could do that.  That was a much safer and surer role than whatever the hell else she might be thinking about herself and Marr.

Strangely it was fear she sensed first from him.  Not fear for himself, exactly; a statesman's fear, shot through with fatalism, and along with that a kind of half-realized guilt.  While she pondered its significance his blind eyes bored into her as if he knew her thoughts.  _Does he?_

"Time was needed to determine the relevance and sensitivity of the information."

Satele knew that wasn't the truth.  "I see."

"You do not believe me.  Very well.  My motives are immaterial.  We must refine the knowledge that the Force has revealed to us."

"What are you getting at?"

"Dispatching personnel to investigate.  Mine and yours.  Investigating further visions _."_ She sensed more honesty in that.  "I thought perhaps your battle meditation skills could be put to use in coordinating our forces."

"I could … try that," she said cautiously.  "But you easily could have asked some other way, if that's what you wanted me to do.  And what's this about further visions?  You know as well as I that you can't just _choose_ to have those at will.  Even seers can't really control it."

"Be that as it may, it is not unlikely for one of us to experience ... further sensings.  You now have the proper context should this occur."  He was stiff and formal and she felt his thoughts fragmenting and reforming at electric speed.

Satele bowed her head to acknowledge him.  "Thank you.  Let us… discuss these at our next council."  Summoning all the composure she could muster, she rose to her feet just as Marr did.  "I appreciate this opportunity for collaboration."

Before she could turn to leave he caught her by the hand — startled, she didn't immediately writhe away or blast him into the wall but only stared at him, transfixed.  His face was stern as a statue's and his mind was a dam strained to near-bursting.  Silently he released her hand to stroke his fingers, slowly and solemnly, along the soft underside of her forearm.  She held her breath.  From his thoughts, still weirdly unguarded, she felt more wistfulness than desire.  _He_ did _say he wasn't used to being touched…_   As she remembered this he looked abruptly up at her as if to say something, but after a moment chose silence, releasing her arm and turning away to contemplate his array of holocrons.

"The night patrols employ many more Sith to detect hostiles.  Manage your return route accordingly," he said to the wall.

"Thank you, Marr." 

He made no response and Satele felt his surface thoughts churning in a frantic, indifferentiable whirl.  _Best to leave him alone with that, I think.  Before I do anything stupid._

 

She hastened out through the many doors, into the dark and teeming jungle, past the Imperials' territory and then home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Satele lay awake in her tent, ruminating.  What a bizarre meeting that had been.  Marr had to have had an ulterior motive for it —  that much was obvious —  but whether it was sizing up his adversary, sexual attraction, or something yet more insidious was unclear.  She was relieved that she'd been able to resist the stirrings that came over her after receiving the vision, unsettled though she was that Marr seemed to have been facing similar desires. 

How had she sensed those so thoroughly?  Perhaps it had been only a clever snare on the Sith's part, revealing vulnerability to lure her into complacency or an ill-advised attack.  That was the likeliest reason; he was not at all the type to forget his barriers or to pretend at emotional connection. 

Then again, there _was_ another possibility…

Dread sent a cold shiver up her spine as she considered it.  The very idea was unnerving.  But it would have to be tested, and the testing was simple enough.  Satele sat up, exhaled steadily and reached out with the Force, lightly but surely, projecting a message off into the night like the cast of a baitless fishing line.  <If you can hear this, Marr, please acknowledge.>

All was still around her, and she attuned her ears to the calls and chirps of the moon's nocturnal beasts as she listened for the vanishingly slim chance of a reply.  If nothing else, this was a useful exercise for her concentration.  Time crept slowly onward toward morning.  She continued to listen, and likewise continued to hear nothing but the living jungle in answer.

 _There.  Tested.  Findings negative.  Of course it wasn't as bad as you thought it was, Satele.  Trust yourself._   She relaxed her posture and lay back on her pillow, eager to rest at last.

Suddenly Marr's voice echoed into her mind as clearly as if he were standing beside her, and for just an instant she _saw_ him, seated in his inner chamber with his mask on and a green holocron in one hand.  <Good evening, Grand Master Shan.>

  _Force preserve me.  This is not good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This is much longer than the previous chapters because I couldn't find anywhere I wanted to end it. D:


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cranking up that angst dial

Marr had not leapt to verify the information, but he had suspected it nonetheless, when his mental wards went weak against her.  It was confirmed with Shan's searching message, which came accompanied, for him, by a grey-dark tableau of her meager tent (and her within it…): there was a bond between them now, however it had come to be, and it would have to be dealt with. 

Yoked by a capricious, fateful Force … with  _her_ , of all people.  It was a cruel twist.  He imagined she felt similarly.  Well.  The next time they met he would not have to imagine.

Obviously shocked and distressed, she had ended their telepathy abruptly after his greeting and he had heard nothing else from her in the day since.  Nor had he attempted to contact her; best to let her process this before proceeding in whatever direction revealed itself.  At least he was thus far free of the intrusive vision-fragments he knew to be common in Force bonds, though with their current situation on Yavin it would perhaps be better to have further glimpses to piece together.

_Visions._   Shan had seen his vision, and seen through his pretexts; of course she had, he thought.  Nonetheless he had secured her assurance of cooperation, for now.  Moreover he had felt  _her_  thoughts after they communed.   _Not surprising so much as … intriguing_.  Part of him had expected the Jedi to have already repressed any lingering desires; the rest of him was unconscionably pleased to discover that she retained a distinct attraction, however much she might resist acting upon it.

Already he had taken measures to have his Black Cipher convey intelligence to him in static messages only, refusing all calls.  The risk of her forcibly touching his mind while Vowrawn or Logistics pestered him about fleet movements was too great, even if he would notice it.  For now he would absorb the messages piecemeal, peripherally, not in a continuous experience that the Jedi might perceive through him.  Of course the Council would sneer and snipe about this comms limitation for a time, but they could be cowed.  Uninterested though he might be in the throne itself, he was not above alluding to the possibility when it suited his purposes.

Shan must also be compromised in such a way.  He wondered at the extent.  With a touch of envy, he considered that she likely had many more options for delegating her … sensitive responsibilities.  Naturally the Republic was, even at its "best", quite the opposite of truly unified… but what a relief it might be, to watch his back only part of the time instead of every living second.

_Weakness_ , said his conscience.  Weakness to rue the fortifying challenges set before him.  Then again, the internecine coups and betrayals of the Imperial powerful were dangerous to the Empire itself, far more than to his irrelevant comfort.  Without the structure that held them, the Sith were torches in a storm.  To endure unto the ages, to preserve power and existence against a galaxy of enemies -- for these things the State must persist, united in force and focus.  He would rest soon, in a carven tomb the same as the ancients', but their kind would continue to rise and flourish and expire.  It was the cycle, the way of things.  In his weary bones he felt the calling, as always: this cycle, the crucible of strife, was a sacrament not to be profaned by Vitiate's egomania.

_Comfort_ is _irrelevant, and to seek it for its own sake is weakness… but health is strength, and a master of legions needs his, does he not?_   There were empirical benefits to touch and, despite the abstemious Jedi preachings, to sexual pleasure; it could attenuate passion or stoke it to lethal heights.  His weakening body might be rejuvenated, in some modest sense, by such a medicine.  Though he were bound for the grave he might yet retain a warrior's vigor in his last years.  Perhaps he could even turn her -- unrestrained emotion was more his realm of mastery than hers, after all...

No.  That was an ambitious daydream.  The pragmatic thing was to aim realistically.  This strange… alliance, in tandem with the needs of the Revan operation, could forestall or mitigate Shan's mind-linking while he studied a way to sever or exploit their bond.  Any abetting of her cause would be nullified by the enhancement of his own.  If he acted wisely.

_So be it then._ It was decided.  Now to get her to see reason.

There was a command briefing that evening, an hour before sunset.  Shan would be there, albeit with her coterie of Jedi and Republic hangers-on, and likely that wastrel son of hers.  The Sith, for once, he was grateful for; though Nox and Beniko and the Wrath did their fair share of answering back at him, they could be counted on to fall in line with his directives and execute them with minimal oversight.  How tedious it must be to be Shan, smothered by supplicants, beholden to the people instead of the cause.

Marr reclined on the bed, gathering his energy, pacifying his head with shah-tezh problems until sleep swam up from the deep to engulf him.

 

* * *

 

A shock of passion tore him from a troubled dream.

He saw her on the cot in her tent, restive with need in the dark hour before dawn; he saw a hand push down her leggings and her legs twisting out of them just enough to open herself to touch.  The lips of her vulva glistened as she stroked them, pressuring with the heel of her palm, sighing at the gentle sensation of her fingers.  Curse this vision, this door between their minds that taunted him with such scenes, this chain that pulled him rapturously and irresistibly along.  Marr reached without thinking to divest himself of his own leggings, his cock already hard and seeping, and touched himself in turn, gripping his shaft with a sure hand as he pulled his foreskin over the head, the repetitive gliding friction building his arousal to ever greater intensity as he trained his perception on her.  His will seemed not his own.

Shan's mind was everywhere but it resolved most often into thoughts of two men.  One he recognized as the now-Supreme Commander of the Republic, both young and old, the young far more vivid, more precise in her memory.  (So.  _That_  was who it had been.)  She called up well-cherished remembrances of secretly making love in a tent much like the one she lay in now, passionate and naïve with the broad-chested soldier she had saved and been saved by, times past counting.  The emotion that coursed from her was idea far more than words, the ecstatic rightness of opening and unity.

The other man (furtively, reluctantly, desperately) was him.   _Well._   That was no surprise, not now… 

In the back of his mind he wondered what of his own thoughts she was seeing.  There were echoes of Gravinia's temple and of the Sith lovers he had once had but the greater share of his mind was simply following hers, his hand pumping faster as their lust was reflected back at each other, magnifying beyond control.  The motions of Shan's hand on and into herself grew more urgent.  She was trying to focus inward, to keep her fantasies and fulfillment only her own, but the link between them meant glimpses of her mind's eye escaped to him whether she wanted them to or not: the strength of this feeling would not, could not be hidden.  He was excited by this intrusion, but her sense of shame and dismay redounded to him, as closely intent on her as he was, and their combined emotions wrestled in conflict.

A note of defiance sang out from her mind and now she thought of no one at all, propelling her body toward catharsis with pure physicality, straining upward and pulsating against the pressure of her stilled palm.  Her orgasm was sharp and bitter and hit him like a blow.  He flinched sideways in his bed, only then noticing his cold sweat and the semen coating his fingers.

Marr was disgusted with himself.  She felt similarly, it was clear.  It was distinctly  _not_  a reaction he enjoyed having amplified by this damned connection. 

Shan's mind flattened out beneath the resolve of her renewed Jedi calm, and he sensed her thoughts drawing backward like liquid through a drain, as far and as fortified as she could get.  The overture of regret he sent to her went unacknowledged.  He did not press the issue; his own mind receded as well, into uncertain shelter.

_This cannot end well_ , he thought blackly, rising to clean himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another uneasy ending! Brought to you by guilty fap time.
> 
> Arguing strictly from the canon, I really don't think these two would pursued anything further on Yavin. Probably not until Odessen. But I think their dynamic is sexy and interesting, so it's a challenge to write them in a way consistent with their characters while still fulfilling the "Marr and Satele have a torrid affair during SoR" goal. The end result is a lotttttt of emotional distress and some convenient plot contrivances. :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Satele makes some discoveries.

She had risen and now she was walking in the jungle, studying the ancient trees and their silent vast height. In the murky dawn the life around her sang and called in the murky dawn. The Force, too, made a chorus; in her very being she performed her own part in it. Her morning forms and exercises had sharpened her mind and readied her body for action, and a momentous purpose animated her journey through the wild. In her Jedi senses a beacon of energy radiated from the forest ahead, impelling her to know its source.

Satele's memory replayed the trials that had led her here: the snuffed planets, the sundered lives — the Jedi with hijacked, broken minds, forced to perpetrate atrocities.  Tython in cinders.  Invading armies treading the charred corpses of her friends into bonedust.  Vitiate's malevolent laughter.  Her very soul felt tarnished, as heavy as lead.  A soft rain began to fall and the darkness of the morning forest deepened, the air growing weighty as well with mist and the scent of petrichor. 

In the distance ahead there was a clearing; in the clearing, a figure.  Satele stopped to size up the interloper.  Around them she sensed a coursing node of unfathomable Force power, the same power that had beckoned her here.  Was it flowing _from_ the silent Jedi or _through_ them?  It was difficult to tell.  Her sense of the person ahead curved and wavered weirdly, as if reflected by many shifting lenses: she knew it as one of her erstwhile Padawans, though not a recent one.  The student who had rescued Tython, perhaps.  _S_ _tudent — hah, no,_ she reminded herself, _that one is far past a novice now_.  Her life kept stretching on and onward beyond the still-fresh memories of the many seekers she had taught, and she was still sometimes shocked when presented with the true numbering of years.  Sixty was a strange place.

Enhancing her sight she saw the unknown being wore an obscuring hooded cloak, their head bent in what appeared to be meditation  _—_  nothing in the least unusual for a Jedi, though no help for her curiosity.  Still her old protégé's identity was an enigma both within and without the Force, resisting all close scrutiny.

She sped her steps, meaning to settle this mystery, but she had barely resumed walking when another figure, all too familiar, loomed beyond her.  The hood, the mask, the ornamental shoulder-spikes: in silhouette and then in detail she saw and knew him.  Despite his size and armor he stalked the figure in the clearing with panther-quiet tread and assassin's intent.

The power her old Padawan wielded brightened and intensified in her senses, glowing such that it was nearly visible to the eye.  She understood in her marrow that the silent Jedi was crucial, a fulcrum for the galaxy's fate.  Darth Marr, with his designs of death, was not her ally here.

She swallowed heavily, gathering her strength, centering her mind and body.  It would be better not to fight him but this left her little choice.

He turned to face her, dramatically slow.  They understood one another without speaking.  She drew the long hilt of her dualsaber and switched it on, the twin blades comet-bright in the dim of the forest.  He paused for what seemed a long time.  Then without speaking he ignited his own weapon, red as rage, advancing toward her with patient, inexorable steps.

Their bond was silent, and even when she pushed his mind was closed to her.  Had their link dissolved as capriciously as it had formed?  It would be easier to duel this way, and harder.  On balance she was grateful not to fear (…or feel) wounding the one connected to her.  With grim resolve she tightened her grip on her weapon, meeting him edge on edge as he closed in range of her.

Marr fought with a single saber, allowing him to marshal all of his considerable strength behind each blow.  It took no small amount of expertise and Force-aided counterbalancing to avoid being staggered.  But she was a warrior down to her essence, no less than was he, and her body knew the feints and flurries of combat with the automatic ease of instinct.  Her dueling style was dynamic if no longer acrobatic, and the double-ended saber whirled in blinding arcs that Marr only barely parried  _—_   though parry he did, and with iron steadiness, ceding no ground.  In her Force sense Satele felt the eyes of many sharp-clawed beasts watching from the dark, eager to make a meal of the defeated.  Of him she still felt almost nothing at all  _—_   not even the steady rage that fueled his power  _—_   and the unidentified Jedi had made no reaction to the melee unfolding nearby, presumably still deep in trance.  But there was no time to ponder these quieter mysteries in the midst of a battle for her life and the lives of others _—_  

Pine needles and perspiration pricked her skin as she and the Sith traded blows for what could have been two minutes or twenty, the hum and clash of saber blades ringing a harsh and familiar war-chorus in her ears.  Marr's etched, expressionless mask stayed trained on her with droidlike exactitude as he countered her with his blade.  Although his defense remained impenetrable, the response of his lightsaber became minutely slower with each hit, and her keen perception picked up the sound of his labored breathing.  _Good.  Fatigue.  I've got to push this _—_  _

She shouted a sonic kiai that buffeted him as she let loose with a renewed offensive, a series of ferocious all-angle slashes that, slower and stylized, comprised the second of her daily practice forms.  It was a gamble __—_  _ the moves left dangerous openings if performed imperfectly, and even in the best case would disadvantage her if none of the strikes managed to connect.

None of them did, valiant though her effort was.

A fist-sized rock hit her in the side, almost knocking the wind out of her, and she pulled back just in time as he lunged forward to exploit the distraction, his crimson blade sweeping across the place where her chest had been an instant before.  A steady series of stones and branches began to assail her from the sides as Marr shifted his own stance to all-out assault, his two-handed blows beating her back under their iron power.  The fatigue seemed to have vanished entirely _—_ now  _she_ was the one trying desperately to keep her breath and hold her own.  Satele imposed calm upon herself, let her movements flow along with the Force of their own accord.  She felt loose and untethered, as though using someone else's body.

_In the eternal now there is time enough._

A sharp little twig struck her in the temple, and before long a runnel of blood stung her eyes.  She closed them, her face going slack into deep concentration as time seemed to slow almost to stasis around her.  In the Force she saw Marr and herself and her old student like peaks above an ocean of swirling clouds.  No, not above, _amid_ _—_ the currents and eddies were in motion all around them, most strikingly around the hooded Jedi, and they roiled with power and portent.  With focus the patterns slowed, allowed observation.  Satele followed the uneven lines, searching out something (anything) to use against him  _—_  

_There._   At her periphery: a twinge, a ripple, the slightest instability.  She followed her Force sense to a pine-branch above them, heavy and lightning-singed and precarious, primed to fall at the subtlest touch…

Her lips mouthed a silent word of focus and she felt, rather than heard, the satisfying _crack_ that followed.  It sent her back from the trance to reality: locked in a stalemate with a Sith Lord, his saber's red glow casting an ominous shade over her face.  She narrowed her eyes at the mute metal mask, wishing she knew what was going on behind it.  The bent hiss of deadlocked lightsabers flared as they pushed against each other _—_  

The impact took Marr completely by surprise.  He groaned in shock, disengaging from her, and in that ghost of an opening Satele's blade found its mark.  The Sith bellowed in agony and reeled back as it pierced his stomach through with a grisly sizzle and the acrid odor of burnt flesh.

For a moment they froze as time stilled for her again: the moment between the fall and the cry.  This was reality and it must be borne.

<IT MUST!>

She could hear the cruel sneer in the voice that invaded her consciousness.   _Vitiate_.

Marr stumbled back and fell to one knee, his saber held out across him in desperate defense.  She couldn't tell if time was moving or not.  The Emperor began to laugh, and his laughter grew louder until it flooded her ears.  As Marr's grip faltered, a thread of steam rising from his wound, Satele saw the Jedi at last turn to face them, hood raised, eyes bulged in shock and panic  _—_  

The being she knew as the Emperor, in strange black robes, had a shining blade poised at the Jedi's neck.  Casually he slashed it across her student's throat, and the hooded head flopped forward like a doll's.

Was the screaming hers?  It wasn't like her to  _—_  

Marr raised his weakening head to look despairingly at her and she knew in the pit of her stomach that everything had gone terribly wrong.

As the monstrous laughter grew to swallow them all there was wind, everywhere wind, and as the last of her was whisked to oblivion she was conscious as herself only as separated motes of soot, borne apart by a darkness deeper even than the Sith would go.

 

* * *

  

She opened her eyes to black nothing.  Slowly she became aware again of her body, full and intact and living and  _real_.

The inchoate prophecies of the Force were a gift that, privately, she often wished had been given to someone else.  

Blinking in the tent's lack of light, she felt like she was putting herself back together again, arranging her thoughts in the places they were supposed to go.  She wondered about the forest that was not Yavin and what could be meant to happen there.  And _—_  

Face warm with embarrassment, she remembered Marr and what had happened before the dream.  The emotions from both incidents were jumbled and dissonant in her mind: shame and anger and arousal and puzzlement and ... this new strangeness from the vision, the suspicion and aggression that had ended in anguish.  Was she not meant to fight him?  That seemed too perfect.  There was more.  What of the unknown Jedi, what of Vitiate?

_There's one thing I have to check first._ She reached out with her mind.

<Marr.  Did you see that?>

Though she knew she had woken him she heard his thought in swift response, as bone-dry as his speech.  <Specify.>

<The vision.>

<I did not.>

_He intrudes on my most private fulfillment and yet remains oblivious to the passion that matters.  How convenient._

<Do you know, then, what passions _matter_?>

She muttered a soft oath, still unused to their link. 

<The universe has many more secrets than my meager wisdom could begin to comprehend,> she projected back at him, her thoughts clear and even.  <But what I saw is of great significance.  You ought to know of it.>

<We have our council this evening.>

<…Yes.  Beyond that, though.  We should meet.  Afterward, if you can.  There is a lot to discuss.>

<Very well, Jedi.>

<I'd appreciate a bit of… privacy, until then.>

<But it is you who spoke to me.>

<You know _exactly_ what I mean.>  _He could hardly fail to._

<Until the council, then,> he responded tersely, and she felt him withdraw his attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This interstitial bit took way too long to finish —  
> I'm addicted to ending things with dashes —
> 
> (Also I'm not really into name-dropping lightsaber stances because that's not the focus of my SW nerdery... but hopefully this worked well enough, nonetheless.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meetings, metaphysics and mind games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had writer's block on this story for weeks and weeks. I read some source material, I played a little SWTOR and KOTOR, I hemmed and hawed and fussed and rewrote. Then I reminded myself "Norah, it's fanfiction, relax" and managed to patch together this chapter. So hey, happy New Year!  
> 

It was afternoon, or what passed for it.  Satele perched on her cot and nibbled on the end of a ration bar while she looked over the reports.  Good: the soldiers who'd been through that ordeal outside Gravinia's temple were showing no lasting effects from the hallucinogenic whatever-that-had-been.  Evidently there'd even been some spontaneous teamwork from the two sides.  She made a note to do a few interviews, bolster a few egos, grease the gears.  _Ah, the joys of mediation_.  The thought wasn't totally sarcastic: she was good at it, much evolved from the rash teenager who wanted to solve every problem with a lightsaber.  _But we only grow so far from who we were_ , she considered.  And she had loved being a warrior.  In the chaos of combat,  she had always felt her mind and body melt into one entity as she flowed where the Force carried her.  It was a rare, unique state, one she only felt in flashes and glimpses otherwise.  _There was a little of that, with Jace, when Theron was born, when Marr_ —

No.

She breathed in and out, measured and slow.  Then she flicked the NEXT icon on the datapad.

The quartermasters weren't collaborating at all — well, she could understand that; surely the Empire wouldn't relish their equipment being available for their enemies to examine at leisure.  _And vice versa_. _Saresh would be hell to placate.  She probably will be anyway_.  Leontyne was a formidable woman with poise, power, and cunning, and Satele respected her, but she couldn't shake her misgivings about the ambitious Twi'lek, particularly since her recent ascent to Supreme Chancellor.  There was a darkness in her, a ruthlessness, not unlike what Satele was accustomed to sensing from Sith.  Unlike that darkness in Jace, it lacked the commensurate amount of light to hold it in check.

_Jace..._

_He_ was the one whose erotic memory had gotten her started that morning, she reminded herself.  (It was only a small and blameless falsehood.)  She'd been thinking of other forest campaigns she'd fought in, and naturally her mind drifted back to Alderaan which of course brought her to Jace and then the overnight at the mountain lake and all the positions they'd done it in, urgent and furious with newly unleashed desire, until the dawn had found them sore and panting and euphoric…

_There-is-no-passion-there-is-serenity._

She was, by now, a seasoned expert at denying herself intimacy with the Supreme Commander, but something had shifted when they were dealing with Theron and the mess with the _Ascendant Spear_ , when they had faced certain death together and come out alive on the other side, the way they had when the Great War raged and they were young.  New things had seemed possible.  It had taken an almost unimaginable amount of discipline to restrain herself from visiting his quarters the night of the victory.  Jace had been crestfallen, though understanding, and she was proud of having resisted the temptations of attachment once more. 

…She was, wasn't she?  That was the straight and narrow path she was trying to walk, free of regrets, free of the heart's conflicts.  She walked it so well.  Everyone was counting on her, after all.  Especially here, with Revan back from the dead again and plotting stars-knew-what.

_Revan.  I wish he could stay in the past._

Her ancestor had a pernicious habit of reappearing to cause trouble long after everyone believed him dead and done.  His actions in the old wars alone would have secured his status as a mighty and mysterious legend, but of course he never did anything by halves.  _Well, no one in this family ever does._   No, he was not content to unite with the Force and leave the living universe to the living; he had to return, had to run another grandiose scheme, had to make himself known within and without the bounds of mortality.  Next to that overwhelming presence her own talents were a disappointing afterthought, a straight-to-holovid sequel.  Satele was weary of the questions and comparisons and, most of all, the expectations.  They often made her wish she could amputate her family name and be only herself, judged on her own.

Gently she chastised herself for entertaining such vain and jealous thoughts; a Master should know better than to dwell on such things.  _But f_ _orgive yourself, Satele: you are human and these impulses are always with you._ She turned her mind to a memory of morning meditation on Tython, in unity with the sun and forest.  In balance.  _Keep the balance._

This was a lot of navel-gazing when she really needed to be working.  Briefly she felt a jolt of panic that Marr might be eavesdropping, but a brief probing in the Force told her he was not.  _I knew he was last night and I didn't stop, I kept going_ —

What was the matter with her lately?  That damn temple was squarely off in the past now, dealt with (so she imagined) — and still she was flushing and daydreaming and feeling uncomfortable in her clothes.  Maybe it was the beginning of menopause, fluctuating hormones, who knew?  She resolved to do more meditating.  Resolved to finding the center of things, which was nowhere at all.

 _There is no_ nowhere _, no_ existence _, no_ self, Ngani used to tell her.  _These distinctions are a trap of the mind._  

The sunlight was fast fading and it was time for the council.  She wolfed down the last of the ration bar, gathered her equipment, put on her beneficent Grand Master face and hurried out of the tent.

* * *

The odd day/night cycle on Yavin's fourth moon being as it was, "sunset" for council purposes was arbitrarily defined as the periodic onset of the gas giant eclipsing its star.  The interval, typically a few days, was deemed convenient for meeting and marking time.  Marr disliked the unfamiliar clock but surmised it was as good as any other such time standard.  He watched the shadow of night encroach on the jungle as the last few attendees emerged through the arched entryway.  It was picturesque but he still, on balance, preferred Dromund Kaas — at least there was civilization to contend with the jungle there, not merely the deserted temples and tombs of a past age.

Already standing ready at the corner of the great durasteel table was the woman who was partly responsible for their presence on this forsaken satellite: Lana Beniko, sleek and cold, now perhaps the best part remaining of the scattered shambles that had been Imperial Intelligence.  She was Sith, he well knew, but the visible markings of dark Force power were absent except her blazing golden eyes: a witch's eyes, feverish and sorcerous, the numbing anesthetic as the knife goes in.  She was charming and pleasant and approachable; she had also survived the academy on Korriban — with ease.  Marr was satisfied, not to say relieved, that her service to the Empire thus far had been loyal and admirable, Revanite meddling notwithstanding.  _With Sith Lords, of course, one never can tell._

It was a moment before he realized she was looking up at him expectantly; he returned a weighty glance that served as his acknowledgment, and she bowed her head.  "My lord."  Her voice dropped in volume.  "Is everything well?"

He waited in silence, banking her unease.

"My lord," she continued, rapid and secretive: "I saw some Council chatter.  They say you've cut off direct comms."

Marr let the awkward quiet linger again before he replied.  "The interruption is precautionary.  During the recent temple incident there was an injury to my person and a potential security breach.  It is being addressed."

"Intelligence would be more than happy to provide—"

"It is being," he repeated, " _addressed_."

Beniko paused, and he felt a frisson of anger from her that was swiftly and professionally swept away.  "My purpose here is wholly in service of the Empire's mission, my lord."

Her apology had a second meaning: _The other Imperials here might be your own personal army, but_ I _am not._   Admirable, almost, how subtle and respectful was her unmistakable defiance.  After the debacle with Darth Arkous, she did have reason to be wary of throwing in too completely with any of the remaining Dark Councilors.  He would have to watch her.

"Acknowledged," he told her sternly, and turned toward the Republic representatives.

The factions faced each other lengthwise across the table, as had quickly become their custom.  Satele Shan was not a tall woman, but her calmly commanding demeanor gave her the presence of one.  Despite her authoritative exterior, in her thoughts Marr sensed a kind of blankness, a deadening.  He could not be certain whether it was a countermeasure or an emotion.  _Or both._  

<It's both,> he heard her say in his head.  Her tone was taut and aloof.  His mask's VIEW unit magnified her, and he studied her sharp face and the faint narrowing of her sea-gale eyes as her mind touched his along the corridor that joined them in the Force.

Shan adjusted the position of the long dualsaber hilt on her belt, staring him down.  Marr returned his mask's resolution to normal.  His composure was flawless, but nonetheless this was one of the times he felt it advantageous to have his face hidden.

He clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the assembly of some twenty soldiers and specialists.  Shan's son, unusually, was absent.  Odd; like Beniko, the spy rarely missed a chance to embroil himself in strategizing.  He wondered what it meant but choked off the thought before it was likely to be noticed.

He looked over again at Lana Beniko as the blonde Sith began delineating plans of action, soliciting testimony and feedback from relevant allies: business as usual, an incremental advance on Revanite positions.  Marr had reviewed the main points the night before but only part of his attention followed along with the review.  Shan, too, was incompletely focused on the council, the surface of her mind alive with darting minnows of thought.  Presently she thought at him again.

<You keep calling me "Shan".>

<It is your name.>

<It's my _family's_ name.>

<Revan's, you mean.>

<Revan never bore it—>

One of her soldiers piped up, interrupting them: "Master Satele, what's the status of the Republic force at the northwest advance camp?"

The answer she gave was fluent and thorough, such that even one of the Imperial officers nodded approvingly.  Marr felt a faint spark of self-satisfaction from her as the group moved on to a logistics matter.

<Deftly done, "Master Satele".>

<I don't know what we're going to do about this bond, but distracting each other during councils is _not_ it.>

<You managed well enough.>

<Do not test me.>  He saw her brow crease faintly in annoyance as her attention returned to the meeting's matters at hand.

"…incident at the previous temple notwithstanding, our forces continue to press forward through Revanite territory.  It would be more efficient were we able to avoid committing redundant personnel in the interest of shoring up our sides' own advantages…"

The officer who had been speaking looked up at Satele for confirmation, and she in turn motioned to a Jedi woman swathed in saffron-gold robes.  "Barsen'thor, if you would."

The calm of this Jedi was deeper and stiller than the Grand Master's.  There was an eerie quality to it, an unnatural brightness.  Perhaps it was repelled by his own power, and that was what he perceived.  Or the opposite.  He let his mind follow the sensing as the woman spoke, her words bearing the same placid smoothness as her Force presence.  _Barsen'thor_.  He couldn't recall what the title meant, though he'd read it somewhere.

<At present it's more or less the Order's master of healing.>

<I see.  That makes sense.>

<?>

<Jedi healing has that particular … quality about it,> he remarked, recalling the frozen brilliance with which Satele had mended his wounds.  She didn't respond.

The uncannily tranquil Jedi, this Barsen'thor, was talking about pooling medical resources, making allowances for each side's security concerns.  Marr saw Beniko making notes and nodding.  _Good._   Willful though she often was, he believed he had delegated well.  The Empire depended on such things.

"There is another proposal," continued the Barsen'thor, "from our Grand Master.  Please go on," she said deferentially, gesturing to Satele.

The Jedi leader rested her palms on the table as she spoke.  "If we wish to operate at maximum combat efficiency, there is always the possibility of battle meditation.  However, I haven't really done that before with forces as … disparate as ours.  There may be difficulties."

"The vaunted Master admits to _difficulties_ ," said Marr with puckish pleasure.

She ignored his needling.  "Indeed.  I had thought you might assist us."

"The forms of mass … enhancement practiced by Sith differ significantly in technique and effect."

"Hence," she said patiently, "why we might benefit from coordinating.  It doesn't have to be some elaborate melding of techniques, just — planning.  Working out who does what when."

"I have subordinates for these tasks."

Marr thought he saw the bridge of her nose wrinkle with pique again.  <Will you work with me here?  Do you want a cover for our meetings or not?>  "Meditation is typically performed by a force's commander.  I didn't want to presume."

He let the comment hang for a few prolonged moments; he couldn’t be seen to acquiesce too easily.  When he did speak it was with skeptical hauteur: "I suppose we could discuss this matter in further detail.  If time allows."

"It is appreciated, Lord Marr."  She gave him a thin, brittle smile.

A few other minor matters, the scheduling of a joint offensive three standard days hence, and the council concluded, attendees splintering into small groups to converse and return to their camps.  The two leaders lingered, outwardly occupying themselves with datapads or the table's holo.  The Jedi's mind was racing through a series of obfuscating mantras and mnemonics.

"As it happens, I have some time to confer about your proposal _now_ , if you are able."  His voice sounded stilted and standoffish, he thought — appropriate to the situation, but it dissatisfied him.  The proper tone for a Sith of his stature was poised and confident, allowing an observer to perceive not a hint of weakness or doubt.  If Satele noticed these thoughts she did not react to them.  Quite possibly she was too busy guarding her own.

Satele nodded, her face inscrutable.  "Let's take a walk, then."

* * *

The vicinity of the conference area had been cleared for landings and logistics, but more efficient locations had been found since then, and the tree-shaded patches of barren jungle were lonely and eerie, a mood only amplified by the dying light and the crumbling stone foundations that stood their ancient watch over nothing.  Marr walked slowly and Satele kept pace with him.  The humidity and the omnipresent background noise of the forest were getting on his nerves.  Too much wildness allowed to run rampant, too few hunters to cull and conquer it.  It was the insanity of the Sith in primal form, the blazing untamed rage that had brought them so many times to both victory and near extinction.

"Speak your purpose, Jedi."

"I had another vision—"

"Yes, you said as much."

She looked down at the ground for a moment.  "And," she continued in a softer voice, "we need to figure out a way to get rid of this bond thing."  He noticed now that she was holding a small, elegant datapad that bore the emblem of her Jedi Order, her slender half-gloved fingers darting across it.  "I did a little research earlier.  Just as a refresher."

"Very well.  Describe this vision."

"If you want, I suppose we could try what we did last time—"

"Not here.  Just speak."

Her words came out quickly and with a quiet urgency, as if she feared losing grasp on them.  "I was in a forest, on a path, walking.  Alone.  Faster than this.  I thought at first it was Yavin.  It wasn't but I only realized that later.  There was a Jedi in a clearing ahead of me but they were cloaked and I couldn't make out who they were."

Marr turned his head slightly, watching her out of the periphery of his mask's vision.  The cybernetics made his sight keen even in low light and he focused, sidelong, on her pensive face as she continued.  "Right after that I saw you.  As an an enemy.  You drew your weapon and I had mine."  She stopped, turned toward him.  "I saw you die."

In her head he saw the omission she had made, though he scarcely needed to.  "You killed me."

"I had to."

He scoffed.  "My dreams foretell new deaths for me every night.  I suppose I shall add this scenario to the count."

She waved that line of discussion away with a hasty hand.  "No, but... I don't know how your dreams are but this wasn't right, this — as soon as you died I saw Vitiate killing my old student, the Jedi, as if you didn't want that to happen either, and then you and I were swept away, into darkness.  Not Sith darkness.  Void, nullity, extinction."  

Jungle insects filled the tenuous silence.  "Not the typical form these visions take, in my case," said Marr neutrally.

"What do you make of it?"

"Ill portent."

She shook her head.  "That's too vague and too easy."

"I am not a seer."

"Neither am I," she said wryly, resuming their stroll.  "I just get visions.  It's not like I choose to have them, or know what they mean until after the fact."

"It is the visions that make the seer," said Marr in counterpoint.

"Maybe it means we're supposed to cooperate.  I don't know.  That, also, seems too easy," she continued.  

"Very little about our cooperation here has been easy."

"Yes, that's true."  The shadow of the eclipse was intensifying, leaving little in the way of natural light except the tree-occluded stars and the soft glow of Satele's datapad.  _A dark to conceal anything_.  _Spies, assassins, lovers_ _._

Satele glanced up but otherwise gave no indication that she had overheard the thought.  "We can ponder over what it means, but I wanted you to know.  Considering."

He gave her a faint nod.  "It is appreciated."

"That brings up our other... issue: this bond."

"Yes," he said cautiously.  Even in the midst of the living jungle he was conscious of the small sounds each of them made as they walked: the muted clanks and creaks of his armor, Satele's saber hilt clinking against her belt as she moved.  He wondered at this heightened perception.  Although he did not sense imminent danger, there was something precarious in the moment.  "Tell me what it is you found."

"It's nothing special, but..." She called up a text on her datapad, although she barely consulted it as she read out long strings of well-practiced information, her voice fast and precise.  "So.  Force bonds.  Effects: empathy, telepathy, perception of surface thoughts.  All with much greater ease than between non-linked individuals, even those sensitive to the Force.  Intrusion into a bond-partner's mind past the surface is typically noticeable.  Effects are greater with physical proximity.  Rarer possibilities: mind alteration, psychic suggestion.  There are poorly substantiated reports of physical interaction."  She waited for a response from him but continued without one after only a moment or two.  "...Unusually strong emotion or sensation is often perceived, unavoidably, by both parties."  At this she swallowed pensively and he could tell she was thinking about that morning's incident (and trying not to linger).

He heard her speak in his mind; she was reluctant to acknowledge the subject aloud.  <That's what happened earlier, isn't it.>

<I believe so.>

<I'll have to be careful to keep my ... emotions reined in.>

Marr turned up his gauntleted palms in his version of a shrug.  <It wasn't only that.  You thought of me.>

She stopped, looking away and then abruptly back at him, her face calm but her eyes like a pair of knives.  "What if I did?  What if I thought of _anyone_ in my _private and personal_ imagination?  Where do you get off—"

"It shames you, that we desire one another."

"Of course it does.  I know better and ought to do better.  Even  _you_ know better."

He paused.  "I regret that interference," he admitted, his voice slow and dark.  "It was uncouth, disrespectful.  Beneath me."

"So you do have _some_ sense of decorum," she said scornfully.

"Do not mistake my allegiance for a lack of honor, easy though it may be for … your sort."

"We've gone too far."  

"Yes.  We should turn about and return to camp."

<I can't even make double entendres work with you peeking into my head.>

<You may be assured that I am no fonder of the situation.>

Satele rolled her eyes briefly, shook her head, and turned slowly to walk in the opposite direction, newly interested in her datapad.  "Going back to the topic at hand..."

<Why not speak in thoughts?  It is more convenient and far more secure.>

"I'd rather not get used to it."  <And you  _do_ have a pleasant enough speaking voice,> she allowed.

He was amused by the not-entirely-intentional admission.  "I suppose this preference is a vanity I am willing to accommodate," he said phlegmatically, walking abreast of her again.

Holding the datapad out like a warding sigil, she continued.  "Force bonds are created by deliberate action of a third party; as the byproduct of certain rituals or tandem Force use; organically over long close contact; or spontaneously.   Typically dissolved by the death of one party, although dissolution is not usually sought, as bonds between hostiles are rare.  May be dissolved by the creating party (though not always), or through certain arduous rituals.  Dissolution depends on the method by which the bond was created—"

Marr, having grown increasingly agitated, finally cut her off.  "Any apprentice could have told me this."

"Of course.  I would expect you to know these things.  But I wanted to make sure we're operating from the same set of knowledge... more or less."

He murmured an acknowledgment and they walked in silence for a moment before he spoke further.  "What entity created this?  Vitiate could do so, but his power is presently much diminished."

"I don't think it's that Sith from that temple, either.  Gavrina?"

"Gravinia."

<Curse my memory.> "From your description she didn't seem like a surpassingly powerful master in her day.  Not even a Darth.  Though her field of expertise might have made her more interested in bonds..."

"The sorceries of these temples were fueled by a great many followers and slaves.  They are rarely, if ever, the effort of one Sith alone."

"Well, yes, of course.  Do you know more about her?"

"No.  The records are old and few.  Yet I, too, sensed her power.  Or lack thereof.  I judge it unlikely.  Moreover the bond itself was not in place until _after_ that... Gravinia incident."

She stopped, bringing a hand to her face, pondering.  They were close to their beginning place.  Above them the great arc of Yavin blazed with the returning sun.  Marr looked up at it, his mask automatically attenuating the eye-searing brightness.  "Could your ancestor have made it?"

"...Revan?  I'd thought about it, but..." <...but I don't really like to, truth be told.>  "What does he gain?  Why would he waste the power he's trying to gather on a pointless lark like this?"

"He may seek to hinder us, create strife, drive a wedge.  If he paid such a cost it may be he considers our coalition a serious threat.  Furthermore there is the matter of your lineage."

"Revan wasn't known for risking his goals just to toy with people."  <I still don't buy it.>

Marr pivoted heavily on one foot, looking at her again. "Think as you like.  The answer is yet undetermined.  We must investigate further, in what little time we have."

"And we are wasting too much of that time, talking about discussing about investigating."  Her fingers on the datapad clenched.

"Yes."

Satele looked over toward the council area's high arched entrance.  He noticed her wondering, fleetingly, about its past.  Then she turned to face him, resolute.  "Meet me, then.  Battle meditation.  One standard day."

"You were serious about that meditation, then."

"I never say anything in council I'm not serious about."

He grunted noncommittally. 

"We'll use the Republic conference tent."

"And not your quarters?"  He hoped she hadn't picked up that wisp of disappointment.

"Far too small," she said.  _And less likely to be equipped with listening devices,_ he thought cynically.

Satele's voice and face were porcelain-smooth as always but her mind revealed increasing consternation.  "I'm not asking this to spy on you."

" _You_ may not be.  Are you as certain of your Republic fellows?"

<I wish I could be.>  "We aren't going to betray state secrets."

Marr scowled beneath the mask.  "I cannot countenance surveillance.  My chambers.  That or nothing.  Let your subordinates know; I care not."

She crossed her arms and turned away from him, her thoughts skeptical.  <This is just some ploy to get me alone with you away from my allies, isn't it.>

<It is not.>  That was only a small and blameless falsehood _._

<Why do I not believe you?>

He moved forward to stand behind her.  She bristled but remained still, looking straight ahead, her conscious thoughts marshalled into a schoolchild's rote listing of cities.  _What a shame to be wearing armor_.  "Nothing you and I have done here has been worthy of shame," he said sonorously, inclining his hooded head yet closer.  A little pulse of arousal escaped her, and he felt her transgressive thrill at his nearness even as she tried frantically to suppress it.  "You are a remarkable woman, Satele Shan," he heard himself say.  "Consider the benefits of ... passion without attachment."  

The moment seemed to lengthen interminably, everything held in stasis.  He had been too bold.  He held his breath.

"One standard day, then," said Satele in a queer voice, her mind's surface swept clean of tempting thoughts.  "Your quarters.  I'll tell my aides.  Likely I'll bring one."  She lunged forward, putting space between them, turned, and gave him a sorrowful and inscrutable smile.  "Thank you for your time this evening, Lord Marr.  I am sure we will find a solution to the trials that confront us."  

Marr bowed his head silently in acknowledgment and farewell, then swiftly set off in the direction of his temple without glancing back.  He was terribly eager to be alone in his head again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Gas-giant-moon light cycles are confusing. That's probably why most SF stories just ignore them... and maybe I also should. If I screwed this up (and I did), hopefully I at least did so aesthetically.  
> \- This isn't going to be a Jace/Satele story, but that relationship *is* her strongest point of comparison for matters of love and sex, so.  
> \- Whoever gave Saresh her name must have been an opera fan...


End file.
